


What are friends for?

by itzteegan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, Best Friends, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 07:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20060218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itzteegan/pseuds/itzteegan
Summary: When Dorian confesses he considers the Inquisitor one of his few friends, one he never expected to meet, it leaves little ol' Shae Lavellan feeling overwhelmed and unworthy of such a sentiment. Dorian sets her straight and supports her through this rough patch of life, because what are friends for?





	What are friends for?

“Allow me to say I’ll stand beside you – against Corypheus, my countrymen, or spurious rumour – so long as you’ll have me.”

I smiled, even as I blinked away tears that threatened to gather. Dorian and I had certainly grown close ever since our first meeting at the Chantry in Redcliffe. We might seem an oddly matched pair of friends to most, as despite the fact that we were both mages, he was the son of a Tevinter Magister, and I was Dalish. Elves and Tevinters tended not to mix well, due to the shared history of our races. Even though both of us now lived long past any warring era, the rippling affect still had me initially regarding him with suspicion. His offer to help had been genuine, however, and the way he’d stumbled over himself as we got better acquainted, as he tried to not use any offensive language for me – even unintentionally – I had to admit, the effort was nice, and it was appreciated. I even started to bring him along on missions, and in fighting by each other’s sides, we would naturally fall into a rhythm. No matter what, however, he always did his best to protect me, always throwing up a barrier for me, shooting fireballs toward enemies that ran past Cassandra or Blackwall or The Iron Bull. I remembered plain as day during the battle at Haven, when I was concentrating on the trebuchet, on cranking it back so it could fire, he stood on the platform next to me, keeping watch for any Red Templars that might try to quickly advance. Though we eventually had to part at the last one, so my group could protect the Inquisitions rear forces while I confronted the Elder One, that frown he cast in my direction seemed like it held a pang of heartache.

Later, after I survived the avalanche and hiked to where the Inquisition had made camp, after I’d rested and prepared to lead us all where Solas had pointed, Dorian made a point to tell me, “I’m glad to see you survived. I would have noticed if you were gone.”

At the time, I’d thought it a little odd, but that was just Dorian. In his own way, he was expressing that he was fond of me, that he would miss me were something to happen. And since then, I’d caught on to his complements more and more, given as more of a sideways glance, but still genuine in every sense. That was the way that he showed affection. I supposed it was a result of growing up where he did, not just in Tevinter but as a part of the upper echelon, where the game played was even deadlier than the one in Orlais. Coupled with his preference to men, he’d gotten quite used to playing things close to the chest, stopping just short of saying what he truly felt and giving off an air of ambiguity. Some might think me to be ambiguous and aloof as well, but more because I was simply quiet and didn’t speak up that much in the first place, while Dorian couldn’t stop talking if his life depended on it. We were different sides of the same coin, similar and yet different and yet similar in our differences. He preferred fire magic, I preferred ice. He could talk circles around anyone he chose, and I remained silent just because I rarely wanted to bother. He was the son of a Tevinter Magister, I was the daughter of an Elven warrior. He’d lived most of his life in the cushy upper class, never wanting for a thing, while my clan eked out a living in the forest, trading with shems and hunting and foraging to survive. Just looking at the trajectories we were supposed to be on, the paths that it looked like we’d been meant to follow before the Conclave … it would have seemed highly unlikely that we’d ever meet, much less fall into a deep, abiding friendship. And yet here we were, now like two peas in a pod, inseparable. I couldn’t even begin to picture my life without Dorian in it.

Reaching out to him, I settled a hand on his arm as I told him earnestly, genuinely, “Thank you. That really means a lot to me.”

He seemed a bit surprised, a bit taken aback. After all, he’d well demonstrated our friendship before now, this was simply putting words to it. He snorted and played it off, as usual, “Of course. If the word of a Magister’s son is worth anything, I suppose.”

I knew that’s all he really saw himself as, and if I was being honest, that hurt, because he was so much more than that. He’d abandoned his homeland, worked against its interests, fought his own countrymen, divulged their secrets, shared arcane knowledge that couldn’t be found outside Tevinter. He’d poured so much of himself into the Inquisition, and all behind the scenes, where hardly anyone else even knew about it and acknowledged it. In doing so, of course, rumours flew about him, equating him with blood mages, calling him an abomination waiting to happen. I’d heard a few of them myself, and I’d come down on those who traded them with the kind of wrath only an Inquisitor could conjure, but I knew I only scratched the surface. I didn’t know why Dorian wanted to do so much work for so little praise, but he did, and while he’d called _me_ a decent sort and admirable … and yet he didn’t hold himself in the same regard, even though by all rights he was far more worthy of praise than I.

Sure, I held the mark, I closed the rifts, I lead the Inquisition, but who was I, really? I wasn’t the Herald of Andraste. I didn’t even believe in her! I followed the Elven Gods, and quite happily so, and yet in my name was championed a figure I had no desire to associate myself with. On top of that, I hadn’t even wanted to be at the damn Conclave to begin with, and I’d consented only when the Keeper herself asked me directly, knowing I couldn’t refuse her. I wasn’t a leader, wasn’t a figurehead, I had no desire for that kind of life. While life in a Dalish clan wasn’t always easy, I’d loved it above all else, and if I could drop everything tomorrow and run back to the Free Marches where our aravels sat, then I would. While I loved the people I’d met – people like Dorian and Solas and Cole, just to begin – I wasn’t cut out for this life, and the more I was pushed into this mould, the more I felt it cracking. Someone like Dorian was _born_ to lead, meant for greatness. I was supposed to just live out my life in the woods with my clan, practising magic and then helping to raise up a new generation of mages in clan Lavellan. That was supposed to be the extent of it all.

And yet here I was, in Skyhold, leader of the Inquisition.

I couldn’t stop a sniffle, and Dorian’s brow furrowed as I hastily dipped my head. Reaching out, his hand didn’t quite meet my shoulder, like he was afraid his touch would make things worse, as he murmured, “Are you alright? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Shaking my head, I reassured, “It isn’t you. It’s just …” I shoved all of those raging thoughts in my head aside as I stepped back, suddenly needing to retreat from the library, from prying eyes. “Sorry, I promise it’s not you,” was all I could offer before I scurried down the steps, rushing through the main hall as I aimed for my private quarters.

That was, I supposed, the good thing about being Inquisitor. I got a nice room separate from everyone and everything and I didn’t have to share. That way, when I got overwhelmed and wanted to just retreat and fling myself on the couch and cry into the cushions, then I could.

And I did.

I felt beyond pitiful, swathed in the riches afforded by the Inquisition, the threat of Corypheus looming overhead, Samson still to deal with, Venatori popping up seemingly _everywhere_. It was just overwhelming and I couldn’t deal with it, had no idea how I was going to get up the next morning and just keep pushing. I was tired, my head hurt from planning and dancing around nobles, and I just wanted to return to my clan where life was simple. I felt trapped, for lack of a better word, and I thanked any god who might want to listen to me that I at least had some that I counted as friends, because if I didn’t even have them, I would have fallen apart ages ago. The pressure of simultaneously saving and fixing the entire world threatened to crush me altogether, and my stomach turned even as my tears lessened. _This is ridiculous, Shae_, I told myself. _You aren’t supposed to be doing this. You’re supposed to be an example. What kind of leader falls apart like this?_ Drying my eyes, I pushed myself off of the couch, and paced the room for a moment as I took deep breaths, splashing some water on my face before I headed to yet another meeting with Cullen and Cassandra to discuss troop movements.

By the time I reentered my room that evening, it was late. The meeting, as per usual, ran overly long, so long that we’d had servants sent to bring us all a meal so we didn’t have to interrupt ourselves. I was completely drained and I didn’t even want to spend a little time at Herald’s Rest with my friends. That prospect just seemed too loud, too bright, and I preferred some time in my own quarters, as far removed from those I was supposed to protect and lead as I could.

So, of course, Dorian saw fit to invite himself in and make himself at home.

He was already there when I finally ascended the last steps, lounging on the sofa that he’d dragged in front of the fire, a half-finished glass of wine in his hand. “Well that was an awfully long meeting,” he commented, holding out another, full glass to me. I was in no mood to refuse as I took the glass and joined him on the sofa. While I wasn’t up for the tavern, a quiet night in with a friend sounded like it might be okay, and I took a nice, deep sip of the sweet wine. As I did so, he mentioned, “If I said something that made you upset earlier, I apologise.”

At the very core of his being, Dorian was a sweetheart. He would deny it to kingdom come, threaten to immolate anyone who hinted at it, but he truly was. He cared deeply, loved heartily, and was fiercely protective of those he loved, and that was the truth, despite what he might want to project other than his usual air of aloofness. “It wasn’t you,” I insisted. “I meant what I said, I appreciated it, I really did. I just …” hanging my head slightly, my finger slipped over the rim of the cup as I admitted, “… I don’t feel like I’m worthy of it.”

I could hear the frown in his voice as he asked, “Whatever do you mean? Of course you are. I don’t say those kinds of things to just anyone, you know.”

My shoulders sagged a little as I shook my head. “I’m not anyone, Dorian, not really. If I hadn’t gone to the Conclave and gotten this damn mark on my hand, nobody would even know or care who I was or what I did. And that would be fine by me. I didn’t want to leave my clan, I didn’t want to be the Herald, to lead the Inquisition, I didn’t want any of it!” I took another long sip before I finally added, “This was never supposed to happen.”

Dorian snorted. “Oh believe me, there are many things that happen that aren’t supposed to. I wasn’t supposed to fancy men, I was supposed to marry out of duty, produce an heir, take my father’s place in the Magisterium when he passes. I was never meant to run off and join the Inquisition, and yet here I am.” I looked up to see that he smiled gently at me, tipping his glass toward me as he drank, as if he was toasting, before he continued, “The things that have put you and I here are a combination of a culmination of events out of our control and our decisions regarding them. It’s never perfect. _We’re_ never perfect.”

It was my turn to snort. “Dorian Pavus, not perfect?”

“I know, perish the thought,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “But the important thing is, we have each other. That means that no matter what you or I are going through, we don’t have to go through it alone.” He settled a hand on my shoulder as we both finished our drinks, adding, “I know this isn’t the life you’d want for yourself. You’re much happier traipsing about in the forest. Don’t deny it, I’ve seen the look on your face in the Hinterlands. My point is … despite this not being ideal for you, you’re still doing _marvellously_.”

Tears threatened an appearance once more as I admitted, my voice soft and low, “I don’t feel like I am.”

“Well that’s the trouble with feelings,” Dorian stated, matter-of-factly, “they aren’t always based in _facts_. And while that doesn’t invalidate them, it should give us pause to step back and remember that just because we _feel_ we aren’t adequate doesn’t mean that we actually _are_.”

I smiled at that, even through the couple of tears that had managed to escape, a genuine smile at the warm assurance given to me by my good friend. Setting my cup down, I wrapped my arms around the Tevinter mage before he had a chance to escape or rebuff the physical affection. Squeezing, I murmured, “Thank you, lethallin. I know you don’t like hugs, just give me a moment.”

And despite his wearied sigh, I felt his arms encircle me all the same.


End file.
